Thoughts Before Dying
by Meg Kenobi
Summary: There is a clearing there, you will remember, a thick tangle of trees, all wound amongst another, angry knotted limbs forming a wall of tree-flesh." What thoughts cross Remus's mind as he is slowly tortured to death?


Thoughts Before Dying

A story by the increasingly morbid Meg Kenobi )

Rating: R for themes of torture, death, and homosexuality. You have been forewarned. ;)

Author's note: Hmm, I don't know how to introduce this. Depression is a funny animal and as it rounds on me again, I find it theraputic to wail on poor, defenseless Remus. This is technically a companion piece to "Serpentine Mercy," as it is Remus's thoughts as he is slowly tortured to death. It vascilates from being uber disturbing to uber wordy.

Disclaimer: If you use this in your next book Ms. Rowling, I will be honored; I will not sue you. I am not selling this, so you should be flattered, so please don't sue me. Deal?

There is a clearing there, you will remember, a thick tangle of trees, all wound amongst another, angry knotted limbs forming a wall of tree-flesh. But it breaks so suddenly to the green rolling, though the gods know we never saw it by sunlight. It was forever thatches in tones of shadow; one ceaseless dark. How damned appropriate. For it wasn't as though you could even perceive hues beyond the shades of gray in which we lived half our lives and it was not as though I recalled anything beyond swift moments, frozen in the eye of the wolf. Sensation: pain, contact, scent; all prevailed in memory over the frailty of sight anyway. So strange, a world without any discernible color is all I want to return to, and yet we tipped the scale of the world on the balance line between green and gold.

All my memories are sharp; heat is my entire being, we are raw and animalistic, a bite; savage and hot with passion, leaving marks to be observed by the all seeing eyes of the old man; he is older now, and sometimes I imagine he was always old. He who saw and misunderstood, and he who would touch me in pity, but I cared not for his touch, his compassion, his indulgence. I violated his trust knowingly, willingly, greedy and covetous for your comfort, your touch. I lived for our carnal nights beneath a swollen moon, for what we shared only in our bestiality until we were grown men, desperate for so much than what satiated boys.

I tell myself in retrospect that we were merely children, that we are above shame and judgment for we couldn't have known in our youth. Children found it enough to play the ancient games in the stone corridors, reenact the hierarchies, inevitably pettier and more vicious than the round before. Condemn the serpent, worship the lion, forget the strokes in between. There was anger in you, Sirius, rage and agony, a need to prove you were above pureblood zealotry. And so you called your mark, a weak little monstrosity who had already felt inferiority beaten into his skin by his father, and did not need reminded. We made him what he is, we made him fell, bitter, and self-righteous, and in the same movements scripted our own demise. How could it have played differently? We cannot be responsible. You were born to a line of predators, your nature echoed in the Seeker, forever diving upon some smaller thing in hopes of elevation. The rat? Answer within the question. And the solitary wolf would never have wandered beyond the comfort of his pack.

I believe in nothing, truth be told, but at the time I longed to warn you that the laws of Karma would devour us in the end. It was nothing that mystical, though, was it? We devoured, dismantled, destroyed, then laughed as hatred and resentment festered. We ruined a boy and fed a war. And then you were taken from me, but not only removed -- we had survived distance and discretion before -- but discolored in my mind. I never wanted to believe that you were traitor, but what choice did I have? I was left to weep for the loss of their beauty, the plight of the child, the stupid futility of the brave stands they all made. But under the moon, I was left to claw my own flesh in howling excruciation, for the only one I had ever loved was ripped from all possibility. Not even impaled upon the saber raised in some valiant cause, but simply painted vile with treason.

I withered from the world, withdrew from the seen into my own thoughts, studies, memories. I unraveled and frayed, started growing gray hairs, bruising and thinning, living in terror of the next period of emptiness, the pain of the mutilating bone negligible when thrown against the hollow entirety of my life. And then one night you were back, but forever we would be ill at ease. War rising again, our hand crafted nemesis of indecipherable alliance still a central player, standing over me even now, unflinching as I depart. No longer boys, we could see the risks. So much more than ourselves. But you held me, comforted me, above all else, forgave me for accepting your guilt.

I want danger to again be nicking sweets from the Honeydukes cellar, suspicion to be Snivellus lurking nearby, tragedy to be my century-old grandmum dying in her sleep. I want you to be here in these final hours. I remember everything, but forget the relevance. My life is moments and colors of you, blurring into one mass, perhaps entirely without meaning. I loved you, damnit, loved you and never truly was allowed to have you. I remember in fifth year I stayed for Christmas for a full moon was coming and I hated passing them with my family. And you stayed, too, even though James and his parents would have welcomed you. But you stayed and in the days before, you held me as I grew frail. You lied in my bed and kissed my mouth and I knew what was possible, knew I could be loved despite everything I was.

Where are you know? I need you more than I ever have, for the pain now is beyond anything I have ever felt. I am flailing, screaming, clawing at myself, trying to lose the tethers of the curse ravaging the flesh I so despise. I want to be free of this flaming, consuming agony. I want to be away from the memory of fallen saints, monstrous boys, and secret loving. And the minion rat lifts me by my face, silver burning to the bone, and all I can do is scream, sobbing in an indignity I have never allowed myself, seeing my disfigured countenance in my mind.

Why is all of this in my mind now? Absolution should be attainable; mercy from the past should not be so far beyond our grasps. I see my feet before me, though I know I have not moved from the crumpled, gasping mass, writhing on a cold stone floor, grappling with the agony of the Cruciatus, burning from the blows of the silver-handed demon. Nevertheless, I see feet, not paws, treading silently over the forgiving litter of a forest floor. There is a clearing up ahead, and the violet sky is drunk on moonbeams. A man waits, smiling behind a shock of dark hair. You. You're waiting for me, whispering promises of eternity, no more divisions, never again to be thwarted by circumstance, and a hundred fireflies elongate, smearing into lines of light against the shadows of trees and echoing the star trails exploding above. I collapse against your forgotten warmth, consumed by light and forgotten by time; my dog-star has lead me home.


End file.
